


Punishment

by Rockinmuffin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Puns, Comedy, Crude Humor, F/M, Flirting, Gender-neutral Reader, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Mild Language, Other, Post Pacifist Ending, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, his jokes aren't all that bad.</p><p>Sans x You</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> A week ago, I didn't even know what Undertale is. Now I'm a filthy skeleton-fucking sinner. I blame the internet.

You’re sitting on a park bench, a hot dog in your hand and Sans sitting at your side. Instead of a hot dog, he has a generous handful of ketchup packets clenched between his bony fingers that he will occasionally bite into and suck dry. He stuffs the empty packets into the pockets of his hoodie, despite there being a trash can not two feet from where he sits.

You want to lecture him about it but refrain from doing so. Mostly because you know he won’t listen but partly because you’re enjoying yourself and just don’t feel like getting upset over little things. It’s not often the two of you have the chance to hang out like this so you’re just enjoying the chance to share this quiet moment with him.

“Hey,” he jabs his pointy elbow into your side, “I have a joke.”

You finish chewing the bite of hot dog already in your mouth, swallowing it audibly as you stare Sans down with the most threatening glare you can manage. It can’t be all that threatening, though, because Sans continues without missing a beat.

“Have you heard about the skeleton who took up archery?”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

“They say he’s really good with a bone and marrow.”

You drag your free hand down your face. “Goddamnit, Sans.”

He just chuckles, taking some perverse sense of glee out of how much his horrible puns drive you absolutely batshit crazy.

“If you’re going to keep doing puns, could you at least try out some new material?” You take a bite out of your hot dog, chewing with annoyed, open-mouthed chomps. “I think you’ve told me every possible skeleton pun there is fifty times over already.”

He shrugs, watching you from half-lidded eye sockets with his ever-present shit-eating grin. “I can think of a few you haven’t heard.”

“No way.” You roll your eyes. “I’m calling your bluff. If you had a bad joke you knew I hadn’t heard yet then there’s no way you would be able to keep it to yourself.”

“Well,” he drawls, stuffing the remainder of his ketchup packets in his hoodie, “They’re not exactly family friendly.”

“There’s nothing family friendly about a pun. Puns are the poison of the spoken and written word that destroys families and all meaningful relationships from the inside out.” You snort out a huff of air. “I highly doubt there’s any pun that could be worse than what I’ve already had to suffer through.”

“Are you sure you want to hear them?”

“Of course I don’t _want_ to hear them. That’s like asking someone if they want to get gored by a unicorn. But it’s a moot point because they don’t exist and you’re full of it.”

Sans shrugs, nonchalant, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it strains your eyeballs. Still, you gird your loins and mentally prepare yourself for an onslaught of bad puns wordplay.

He glances at you from the side, little pinpoints of white light flashing from within his empty sockets. “You have a skeleton inside you.”

“Uh…” you respond, not sure if this is going where you think it’s going.

He winks. “Wanna have another one?”

“Oh my God.” You bury your face in the palm of your hand. You’re dying from embarrassment; literally dying. The blood rushing to your face isn’t a flustered blush, you tell yourself; you’re just having an aneurysm or a stroke or some other kind of horrible medical malady that would cause all the blood in your body to rush straight to your cheeks. This is what death feels like. “Oh my _God_ ,” you repeat.

“See? That’s why I didn’t tell it earlier. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.” He pauses for a beat, smile widening. “I have at least ten more like it.”

Despite the threat of more puns, Sans remains blissfully silent as you take a moment to collect yourself. With each second that passes, you can feel the shock of his comment steadily wearing off. Once the heat in your cheeks has gone down to a tolerable level, you take your hand off your face and fixate another sharp-eyed glare on him. 

As expected, it has no effect, but at least you can say you tried.

“You shouldn’t joke about things like that.” You turn away from him, taking a huge bite of your now-cold hot dog. “What if I thought you were actually being serious?” 

He leers. “Who says I wasn’t?”

“GUH?!”

You choke and sputter as your bite of hot dog lodges itself in your throat. You grab at your neck and beat your chest a couple times before you get the good sense to stand up and lean your stomach against the back of the bench so you can properly perform the Heimlich maneuver on yourself. You cough for a good five seconds, making sure your throat is clear before turning back to Sans.

“GUH?!” you repeat, for lack of anything more intelligent to say.

“I’m sorry. Did my irresistible charm just steal your breath away?”

You cough a couple more times and narrow your eyes at him.

“No need to get so choked up,” he laughs.

“I will _end you_ ,” you say with a scratchy voice.

Sans just laughs harder at your sad excuse for a threat and you can’t really blame him. You’re all bark and no bite and maybe you genuinely enjoy puns a little more than you’re willing to admit. And Sans just so happens to be the right blend of observant and chill that he’s aware of that truth without explicitly calling you out on it. It’s a part of what makes your dynamic with him so great. It’s why you enjoy spending time with him even if most of his jokes are cringe-worthy.

You struggle to keep the smile starting at the corner of your lips off your face. It shows for only a fraction of a second but you know Sans sees it anyway.

“Awww. Don’t be upset, buddy. I was just ribbin’ you.”

“About which part? The choking puns or you seriously propositioning me?”

He just flashes another toothy grin at you before leaning back against the bench and letting the light fade from his sockets. Despite his unrivaled passion for napping, you know even Sans can’t fall asleep that quick. He’s avoiding the question. He’s not even trying to be subtle about it.

Is he baiting you? You think he might be baiting you. Then again, he might just really not want to talk about it. It’s kind of hard to tell with Sans.

Either way, you don’t press the issue. You just sit back and idly pick at the remains of your hot dog bun, taking advantage of the silence to mull over your thoughts and enjoy his company.

The two of you are sitting close enough that you can feel his outstretched leg bone pressing against the outside of your thigh. No warmth emits from the contact but it’s solid and that in itself is surprisingly comforting. It means he’s here.

Now that you have time to really think about it, the thought of Sans hitting on you—joking or not—doesn’t bother you as much as you think it probably should. Not because he’s a monster, mind you, but because you just never really pictured him ever being romantically involved with anybody. It’s still a little odd, maybe, and certainly unexpected, but not unpleasant.

You side-glance at Sans from beneath your eyelashes. The base of his skull is leaning casually against the back of the bench and his chest moves up and down in a slow rhythm even though you don’t think he actually needs to breathe. Seeing him look so relaxed and content, knowing that he can be so at ease with you by his side, fills you with determination.

“Well,” he picks himself off from the bench, groaning as if the action itself takes more effort than it’s worth. His leg bone is no longer pressed to you and you instantly feel the loss. “It’s been fun. But I think it’s about time I make like a wishbone and split.”

“Hey, wait! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” you shout as you stand up from the bench. He pauses and you use the opportunity to grab his hips, pulling him forward until his pelvic bone is tightly pressed to yours. Because, hey, you know what they say; go big or go home. “This bone. This is the bone I pick.”

He jumps a bit at that and you feel a smug sense of satisfaction out of getting a rise out of him. A tinge of pink stains his skull and how does that even work?! Monster anatomy is a mystery.

“This bone, too,” you say as you lean down to press your lips to his cheekbone. “And maybe a few choice others. I have multiple bones to pick with you.”

His grin widens at that, a soft shade of pink still tingeing his bones. “Was that baby’s first pun?”

You snort. “As far as you know. But who’s to say you’re the only joke-loving skeleton I’ve ever flirted with? Maybe I’ve had a lot of experience.”

“You’re awful,” he laughs.

“I guess you could say…” You pause for dramatic effect. “I’m _bad to the bone_.”

“Keep that up,” he gazes at you meaningfully, “And I’ll be taking you to the bone zone.”

“Well, you know what they say,” you shrug, the beginnings of a devious smile twitching at the corner of your lips. “Go big or go bone.”


End file.
